Chapter Fifteen #2
“Then you may court her,” Adrian said, his tone softening by degrees. “Properly. With appropriate supervision. And if you hurt her, even by accident, I shall ensure what remains of you is discovered by archaeologists in a thousand years.”
“Understood, Your Grace.”
“Good. Now go—and send my sister in.”
Marianne barely had time to retreat around the corner before Lord Timothy emerged, his expression an entertaining blend of triumph and terror. He passed her without noticing, heading for the drawing room.
Moments later, Catherine appeared, radiant. “He asked permission to court me!” she whispered to Marianne. “Properly!”
She hurried into the study, and Marianne heard Adrian’s unmistakable growl: “Do not look so pleased with yourself. I have granted permission for a courtship, not a betrothal.”
“I know. But Adrian—he wishes to court me! Not your sister, not the Duke’s connection—me!”
“Yes, well,” came the dry reply. “He seems… acceptable.”
“Acceptable?” Catherine laughed. “From you, that’s practically a declaration of love.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“I learned from the best.”
Marianne smiled at their familiar exchange, but another wave of dizziness forced her to catch the wall for support. Perhaps she truly ought to lie down before—
“Marianne?”
She looked up to find Adrian in the doorway, his expression shifting from irritation to alarm in an instant.
“I thought you were resting.”
“I wanted to hear—” The world tilted again, and this time Adrian caught her before she could fall.
“That is quite enough. Catherine, send for Dr Peterson at once—and ask the steward why he has not arrived sooner.”
“Adrian, I am—”
“If you say fine, I shall lock you in our chamber until you are.”
“That’s imprisonment.”
“That’s marriage,” he retorted, sweeping her into his arms. “Our marriage, at any rate.”
Mr Peterson arrived within the hour—a testament both to the Duke’s influence and to the generous retainer that ensured his prompt attendance.
He was young and modern in his practice, which was precisely why Adrian preferred him to the older physicians who prescribed leeches and mercury for all ills.
“Your Grace,” he bowed to Adrian, then turned to Marianne. “Your Grace. What appears to be the trouble?”
“Nothing—” Marianne began.
“Nausea, dizziness, fatigue, loss of appetite,” Adrian interjected grimly. “For at least a week.”
“I see. Might I examine Her Grace privately?”
Adrian’s jaw set. “I am remaining.”
“Adrian—”
“I. Am. Remaining.”
Mr Peterson, recognising futility when he saw it, inclined his head. “Very well. When did Your Grace’s last courses occur?”
Marianne felt herself blush. “I… cannot quite recall.”
“Five weeks ago,” Adrian said quietly. When she looked at him in surprise, he shrugged. “I told you. I notice everything about you.”
“I see.” Mr Peterson’s expression remained professionally neutral. “And have you experienced any other symptoms? Sensitivity to odours, perhaps? Tenderness in certain areas?”
“Yes,” Marianne admitted quietly. “Both.”
The physician smiled. “Then I believe congratulations are in order. Unless I am mistaken, Your Grace is with child.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Marianne watched Adrian’s face shift through disbelief, wonder, and terror before settling somewhere indescribable.
“Adrian?” she said tentatively.
“A child.” His voice was rough, almost reverent. “You are carrying my child.”
“So it appears.”
“Our child,” he said again, as though testing the sound of it.
Mr Peterson cleared his throat delicately. “Perhaps I should give you some privacy. Your Grace, I shall leave instructions with your lady’s maid about diet and rest. Avoid excessive excitement, no riding, light exercise only. I’ll call again in a fortnight to check your progress.”
He departed with professional efficiency, leaving Marianne and Adrian staring at each other across a chasm of unspoken emotions.
“Say something,” Marianne finally whispered.
Adrian moved to the window, his back to her, shoulders rigid with tension. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Are you... disappointed?”
He turned sharply, incredulous. “Disappointed? Marianne, you are carrying my heir—our child. How could I possibly be disappointed?”
“Then why do you look as though someone has died?”
“Because someone might.” The words burst from him, raw and anguished. “You might. Childbirth is dangerous. Women die—strong, healthy women—bringing life into the world, and I cannot—” He broke off, raking a hand through his hair in agitation.
“Adrian—”
“My mother had three stillbirths after Catherine,” he said hoarsely. “Three. Each one nearly killed her. The last did, in its way. She never recovered—grew weaker and weaker until a mere chill finished what childbirth began.”
Marianne crossed to him despite his defensive stance. “I am not your mother.”
“No, but you are mine,” he said, seizing her shoulders, his grip a little too firm. “Mine to protect, to keep safe—and I have failed already. I have put you in danger through my selfish desires, my need for you—”
“Stop.” She pressed her fingers to his lips. “You have not failed. This is what happens in marriage, Adrian. Sometimes, families grow—it is part of life.”
“Not if it costs you your life.”
“Everything worth having in life carries some risk. Carriage rides, country roads—you, of all people, should know that. But we take those risks, because fear cannot be allowed to rule us.”
His hands moved to cup her face, thumbs stroking her cheekbones with desperate tenderness. “I cannot lose you.”
“You will not.”
“You cannot promise that.”
“No,” she admitted. “But I can promise that I am strong, and healthy, and attended by one of the best physicians in London. And I promise I want this child—our child—more than I have ever wanted anything, save you.”
“Marianne—”
“And I promise,” she added, eyes glinting, “that if you spend the next eight months catastrophising every flutter and treating me as if I were spun glass, I shall make your life miserable.”
Despite everything, his lips quirked. “You already make me miserable.”
“Miserably happy?”
“Miserably terrified.” But he pulled her against him, burying his face in her hair. “A baby. We’re having a baby.”
“We are.”
“Catherine’s going to be an aunt.”
“Lord Timothy will have to hasten his courtship if he hopes to marry before I’m too large to attend.”
“You’ll not attend any weddings while with child,” Adrian said at once, his protectiveness already reigniting.
“Adrian—”
“No excitement, the physician said. Weddings are excitement.”
“Adrian—”
“In fact, you should avoid all social engagements. Far too stimulating.”
“If you think to keep me confined here for eight months—”
“Nine,” he corrected serenely. “Possibly ten, to be safe.”
“Adrian Blackwell!”
He kissed her—effectively ending the argument. When they parted, both breathless, he rested his forehead against hers.
“Let me be terrified,” he murmured. “Let me be impossible and overprotective and drive you half-mad. It is the only way I know to love.”
“I know,” she said softly. “But you must let me live, too. Our child deserves a mother who engages with the world, not one hidden away like a secret.”
“You could never be shameful,” he said, touching her cheek. “But you are my secret. My treasure.” His hand drifted to her still-flat stomach, wonder overtaking fear. “There’s truly a child in there. Part you, part me.”
“Hopefully with your intelligence and my common sense.”
“Your beauty and my stubbornness.”
“Spare us all if it’s the reverse.”
He laughed—rusty but real. “Catherine must be told. She’ll be insufferably delighted.”
As if conjured by name, Catherine knocked. “Is everything quite well? Mr Peterson left looking terribly pleased.”
“Come in,” Adrian called.
Catherine entered, eyes darting between them—between Adrian’s hand upon Marianne’s waist and the gleam in their expressions.
“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh! Truly?”
Marianne nodded, emotion welling in her throat. “You’re to be an aunt.”
Catherine flew across the room, throwing her arms about them both. “A baby! How wonderful! When? How are you feeling? What can I do?”
“Breathe,” Adrian advised, though his arm came around her in fond restraint. “The child will not arrive for many months.”
“But there’s so much to arrange! The nursery, the layette, names—”
“Catherine,” Adrian warned.
“What? I’m excited! My nephew—or niece—oh, I do hope it’s a girl. Imagine a tiny Marianne running about, terrorising society from the cradle!”
“Goodness gracious,” Adrian muttered, though his eyes were bright with laughter.
They were interrupted by the butler announcing Lord Timothy’s return. He’d apparently been walking in the garden, giving the family privacy while wrestling with his own emotions.
“Shall I receive him?” Catherine asked, trying to contain her eagerness.
“In the drawing room,” Adrian agreed. “With suitable supervision.”
“You mean with you glowering in the corner?”
“I do not glower.”
Both women gave him identical looks.
“I observe,” he amended stiffly, “with protective intensity.”
“You glower,” they said in unison, then laughed at his affronted expression.
As Catherine hurried off, Marianne took Adrian’s hand. “Come. Let us watch your sister being courted—properly.”
“Must we?”
“Yes. It’s important to her. And you must see she’s perfectly capable of managing her own affairs.”
“She once set her French tutor’s notes on fire trying to refill a lamp. I remain unconvinced.”
“That was years ago.”
“Trauma leaves lasting impressions.”
***
They took up a discreet position at the far end of the room—close enough to chaperone, distant enough for privacy. Lord Timothy rose at Catherine’s entrance, his face lighting with unmistakable joy.
“Lady Catherine,” he said warmly. “You look radiant.”
“Lord Timothy.” Catherine curtseyed with perfect composure, though her smile trembled at the edges. “I understand you spoke with my brother.”